


these are the hands of fate

by myillusionsgone



Series: said, "i'm fine," but it wasn't true [3]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Gen, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Post Fantasia Arc, Pre-Tenrou-Arc-Timeskip, Tea Time with Porlyusica, callback to, the Gilvan snuck up on me so here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myillusionsgone/pseuds/myillusionsgone
Summary: There are days that have to happen to you so you realise where you are going. This is not exactly one of them.  — Gildarts
Relationships: Gildarts Clive & Porlyusica, Gildarts Clive/Ivan Dreyar, Ivan Dreyar & Porlyusica
Series: said, "i'm fine," but it wasn't true [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623238
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	these are the hands of fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woopsforgotadam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woopsforgotadam/gifts).



The wind was in the trees, humming a soft song about the coming autumn. It was peaceful in the same way a frozen lake was beautiful — despite the changing tunes, this scene was a painted picture, a picture of a man who leaned against a tree, oiling the metal joints of his fingers as not far from him, someone was asleep. And this was where the dissonance set it, where the picture became smudged.

_ Wrong _ .

Gildarts did not belong here. He should be miles away, chasing down leads to finally complete one of his lengthier quests. He had made plans, after all. In five minutes, the ship that would have brought him to Caelum would depart and he would not be on it. And his guild's healer should be at home, brewing potions and studying tomes almost as heavy as she was. 

It was not often that Gildarts allowed himself a thought like this, but . . . the temperamental healer had gotten old. This was hardly a thought he would ever share with anyone, not out of fear that she might smack him with a broom (better than most, he knew that her bark was much worse than her bite) but because there was no one left who would  _ not _ look at him with bewilderment for making such a simple statement. He sometimes found himself missing Ivan, these days, though he knew better than to say it aloud.

He remembered Porlyusica from when they and the world had been  _ a lot _ younger — chasing after Ivan and him, making sure their first aid kits and their bellies were always full, rolling her eyes and tucking extra money into Ivan’s hand while telling them to stay safe. She had been  **there** , a rock amidst the stormy sea — someone who had cared more about making sure that he was eating properly than about how much glory he was bringing to the guild.

His leg whined and the wires and cogs inside  **complained** as he moved to check on the woman, only to find her still unconscious, wrapped in both their cloaks as her head rested on a mossy stone. Her unconsciousness would be  _ far _ more concerning, would he not know that she had been hit with a powerful sleep spell, would he not know that for a woman her age, she was still . . . sprightly. No longer a spring chicken by a long shot, but — spry enough to put the fear of god into reckless mages, such as himself. The guild needed someone who was pure common sense and bluntness, it truly did.

And as far as healers went — there was none quite as skilled as her.

Gildarts had  **tried** to pick up some basics of healing magic; it had only seemed the logical step after having been told that he tended to get hurt most often. However, his good intentions had not made the magic any easier to learn and eventually, he had given up. He regretted it now, a little. It would have been good time to repay Porlyusica for all the times he had wound up in her care, but no matter how much he tried, the magic in his veins did not want to take the shape of a healing spell, kept being too brittle to be shaped into the lightness of healing magic.

He was searching his bag for his lighter when he had to sigh quietly. “Didn't do anything to your mum,” he said without even lifting his head as a twig snapped beneath a boot. There were footsteps he could easily pick out from any crowd, and Ivan's were still among them. And who, if not the healer's son would even notice her absence? The thought left a bad taste in his mouth, mostly because the  _ only _ reason  **anyone** in Magnolia would find her missing would be if they braved the forest to search her out for an injury or an illness that needed her expertise.

Still, to see Ivan fuss over his mother, to watch him neatly fold his coat and place it beneath her head before he bothered to address him . . . it made Gildarts feel nostalgic. This was the closest they had come to a temporary truce in over twenty years; would he not know how well his friend could hold his grudges, he would almost dare to think that Ivan was tired of his anger.

“I was in the area, and . . . I did not accuse you of knocking out my mother,” Ivan responded as he crossed his arms over his chest, sharp eyes piercing Gildarts as if he was a particularly interesting specimen that his one-time friend had found. As so often, there was more weight to the raven's words than most would be able to tell. 

Falling silent, he watched the healer's son tap glowing fingers against the woman's temples, barely touching her as he sought for anything that might indicate that her state was more severe than it seemed at first glance. Satisfied with a result he did not feel the need to share, he settled down on a rock, his stare never leaving Gildarts. There had been a time when they would have had no shortage of things to talk about, and there were things he wanted to say. Things Ivan would not want to hear. There was Laxus' banishment, something that taste like acid whenever Gildarts thought of it. There were his concerns and worries, there was the goddamn question instinct to ask Ivan if he was eating right because he looked, with all due respect, like a scarecrow without his coat and since when did he think he could pull off a beard? There was—

The cough that rattled from the healer's lungs grated on Gildarts' already frayed nerves, but it made Ivan look away from him and to move over to his mother in a flash, holding her gently as her cough slowly turned into hushed curses. That had been a surprise to find out when he had been fifteen — that mother and son both cursed far more than he would have initially guessed.

“Mother,” Ivan said calmly, but this sounded wrong,  _ so very wrong _ to Gildarts for reasons he could not name.

The healer blinked owlishly as she leaned against her son's shoulder, her eyes a fraction wider than they usually would be as she stared at them. “Boys,” she said, sitting a little straighter. “Ivan. Gildarts. It is good to see you.”

He nodded as he toyed with his lighter that had finally resurfaced in the pocket of his shirt. “Sica,” he greeted, his voice dripping with cheerfulness. It was not entirely fake, but she should not have to worry about him, even if it was just this one time. “Let me fetch you some water.”

Someone else might have chosen to make their escape, now. Would have grabbed the healer and tried to get as much distance between them and Ivan as humanly possible. But — Gildarts did not share the grim opinion others in his guild (and the world in general) had of Ivan. He did not resent the other, although the same could not be said in reverse. 

(And he knew that there was hardly a safer place for Porlyusica to be right now.)

The cough came unbidden.  _ It always did _ . He was reaching for his water skin as he felt the claws in his throat. It had been a while since the last time — the medicine he had been given had helped him a great deal and maybe, he had been too busy to suffer from love — but there was the foul sweetness of his own breath, seconds before he was clawing at the ground because fuck, this  _ hurt _ . He would be tempted to trade another arm, another leg for this to stop.

Never had he seen the healer move this fast. One moment, she had been sitting on the ground, sighing as her son fussed over her. The next, she was next to him, one hand on his shoulder as the other held back his hair. Perhaps his assessment that she was no longer a spring chicken was only true when she was unconscious.

Ivan was on his feet as well, just as fast, and before his mother could tell him what to do, his hand was on his back, sending a burst of healing magic through weary bones, letting it reach the lungs and undoing the damage that was being done as Gildarts choked and threw up alstroemeria flowers until he was out of breath and sank against the healer.

He was exhausted. Hiding this slow death had been easier for him than it should have been; he did not have many close friends that were close enough to him to pick up on the stack of herbs and potions he was carrying him. There was no one to ask him why he brewed his own tea each evening, like clockwork. He had been glad to find out that he did not have to worry that anyone could find him out, but at the same time, he knew that there were many ways to name loneliness.

Raising to her feet, the healer sighed. “I will fetch some herbs,” Porlyusica said quietly as she brushed his hair out of his face. “Ivan, stay with him for a moment. I won't take long.”

She left before either of them could protest, picking up her cloak and wrapping it around her as she wandered off into the woods. A part of Gildarts wanted to tell her not to, wanted to say that he was fine without any fresh medicine, but like her son, the healer was stubborn and did not tend to allow others to argue.

Crossing his arms, Ivan retreated to the rock where he had been sitting earlier. “Flower Curse?” he asked, as if he was struggling to believe it. Perhaps because it did have to seem unbelievable — Gildarts had faced monsters of many kinds, had survived an encounter with a dragon, and had generally been usually lucky when it had come to life-threatening situations. Perhaps Ivan was seeing some kind of poetic justice in this; Gildarts would not blame him.

Still, he only shrugged. “Should your mum be unable to fix it, you are welcome to attend my funeral,” he said with a sigh. Well, unless anyone would hijack his funeral and make it  _ not _ about him.

Ivan scoffed as he rolled his eyes. “You are decidedly not funny, Gildarts,” he groaned as he pushed a stone around with his shoe, rubbing his bearded chin.

“Says the man with the beard that makes him look like the villain of a bad novel,” Gildarts quipped. “I  _ was _ going to assume that is a prop, but . . . you never know.”

The glare Ivan threw him was withering.

A twig snapped under Porlyusica's shoe as she returned, but she did not address either of them as she searched her own bag for glass vials that had not been broken by her fall. She was humming under her breath, something he had not seen her do in ages (not that he had kept up his usual visits to her home after everything that had happened). Slipping his coat back on, the raven sighed before he brushed moss off his mother’s shoulder as she continued to cut roots into tiny pieces before pouring water over them and moving on to the next step. 

“I must go now, I trust you both to return unharmed,” Ivan said but then, he lingered for a moment, dark eyes resting on the metal limbs. There was something in his eyes that reminded of years long gone, something unspeakably familiar. “You  _ do _ know that mother can make you something better, right?” he asked, but where Gildarts would have expected haughtiness (Ivan had always been very proud of his mother), he found none. 

Almost, this felt like the old Ivan was there again, nagging him to get his wounds taken care of. It was a thought that almost crushed his heart.


End file.
